Dear Editor,
Recently, my bank where I have an unimpressively small account nevertheless required me to be authenticated by reams of proof of identity. It was an edifying experience – so much in contrast to that of 50 years ‘off’ when the Bank Manager greeted me personally and himself processed the minimal documentation for opening an account – all in ten minutes after the overseas Royal Bank of Canada had opened its daily doors. This was by no means a singular experience; rather the manner of doing business at the time, and particularly instructive since I had neither family pedigree nor appropriate reference to recommend me.
What the procedure accomplished was the recognition of my persona (character if you will) as one to be trusted. It added value to the self-perception of a young (unregistered) administrative assistant, probably just because I was employed by Bookers.
50 years ‘on’ I am a nonentity in a queue, and better not be there without the certification of a range of agencies who, ironically enough, need their own productivity to be verified. My virtual anonymity is matched by that of the newly recruited customer servant (?) whose true relationship is with the technology which speaks silently, but loudly, to him/her. The sound deafens the answer to any questions asked. The actual response is an equally deafening swipe of the right card.
Then there is the TIN which is a prerequisite to certain transactions, issued by an institution that virtually sells licences to untrained drivers of every ilk, who nonchalantly kill people with one-handed (cell-phone) driving, overlooked by police comparatively unacquainted with the traffic regulations – all 50 years ‘on’.
Fifty years ‘off’ traffic was minimal, roads were engineered based on stone – as distinct from loam. Roads were maintained by qualified engineers then, in contrast to them being allowed to deteriorate in order to justify the award to under-qualified (self-made) contractors to carry out repairs with an expiry date, so that the tender can be repeated – 50 years ‘on’.
The scenario is not totally unlike the medical services, which 50 years ‘off’ were delivered by internationally qualified doctors and nurses, who did not have to apologise for the incidence of maternal deaths; 50 years ‘on’ nursing aides, nursing assistants and practical nurses attend.
But in all fairness there was hardly any crime as such to extend the wits of judges and magistrates; so on reflection, in the absence of persistent challenges, it might be argued that the latter’s competencies were overrated here – even though eminently acceptable in the Caribbean region and elsewhere – alas Ramphal, Luckhoo, Shahabuddeen, et al. Even the imprisoned respected the justice system, as did their wardens who took them out for daily constitutionals through the streets of Georgetown, without any sense of threat. Now 50 years ‘on’ the two are engaged in encounters so hostile that they are actually consumed by fire.
Symbolically perhaps the word ‘garbage’ was not part of the lexicon of citizens 50 years ‘off’. There simply were no dumps. But then citizens paid their taxes for service from an eminently efficient Town Council (not a city 50 years ‘off’).
There is no question that the standard of education at the time was superior to that 50 years ‘on’, so that there was little, if any, need to train public servants to perform adequately. The system of performance appraisal of every employee was meticulously administered, and contrary to across-the-board increases 50 years ‘on’ merit increments (including a double) were the order of the day. 50 years ‘off’ public servants were civil servants who could not possibly anticipate being converted into the pliant non-professional ‘contracted employees’ of 50 years ‘on’.
But to return to the education system; it was not limited to cramming, expensive extra lessons as obtains 50 years ‘on’; but the development of the individual through a choice of languages, drama, a range of sports – athletics, cricket, football, hockey, table tennis – in many instances to national standards. Importantly
teamsmanship was learnt and how to take a wrong decision. There were even classes in gardening. Mention of gardening is important, for such learning may have surreptitiously contributed to the quality of vegetables and fruits – all organic – 50 years ‘off’, as compared to the over-fertilised local produce and synthetic imports, 50 years ‘on’.
Outstandingly milk was pure and creamy – used to churn for authentic ice-cream – now replaced by advertised ‘tastes’ from overseas laboratories. But even then – 50 years ‘off’ the imported salted fish, corned beef, flour were ‘real’. Fifty years ‘on’ they have all become ‘virtual’. Bread, pastry were then solid authentic edibles, whether made at home or in bakeries. 50 years ‘on’ the flour is admixed. Where has cassava flour gone? Mauby and lemonade were the reinvigorating drinks after physical exercise 50 years ‘off’; now the drinkers ‘lime’, consuming synthetic compounds promoted by cartoon-style advertisements – 50 years ‘on’.
Fifty years ‘off’ we were entertained by European classics and local folk music; by piano, violin and cello; by orchestras and choirs male and female – the artistes all local. Fifty years ‘on’ the latter have been overlooked in preference to the foreign vocals of overseas performers. Even the local calypsonian is not remembered – particularly the one who was a politician. Most tragically perhaps 50 years ‘on’ no one pays respect to the classical ‘Legend of Kaieteur’.
Gone these 50 years are artisans: tinsmith, guttersmith, carpenter, cabinet-maker, plumber. Their products are now imported hardware, for saucepans and buckets have been replaced by plastic bags.
Fifty years ‘on’ there is hardly a tailor or dressmaker; just off-the-shelf, apart from occasional fashion shows (for women).
Fifty years ‘off’ Bourda was recognised as one of the preeminent cricket grounds in the world. It was also the mecca of international athletic and cycle sports. Fifty years ‘on’ its appearance is perhaps less aesthetic than Bourda market. That its address is Shiv Chanderpaul Drive carries little meaning.
Admittedly there were the persistent explosions of communal violence preceding the first independence, and there was embedded a sense of collective insecurity. But none could have envisaged the proliferation of personal insecurity and domestic violence that obtain 50 years ‘on’, along with the spate of premature termination of individual lives.
The political antipathies did not at the time impact substantively on the behaviour of the private sector who, however, 50 years ‘on’ boldly colluded with the ruling dispensation. 50 years ‘on’ the audit investigations have revalued the breadth and depth of corruption.
Fifty years ‘off’ the Morris ‘moto’car was built to last. Now there is the bountiful assurance of ‘auto’ spares to upkeep vehicles bought after the expiry date.
That time doctors prescribed drugs which were legally imported. This time ‘lords’ export drugs – in rice, lumber, vegetables and transport them by mules.
Fifty years ‘off’ there was no NIS. Fifty years ‘on’ June 9, 2016 at 9:00 hrs. there was no NIS money at the neighbourhood post office.
Nearly forgot, we only knew of ‘hard copies’ in those days. Fifty years ‘on’, both the originals and the copies which pervade correspondence anywhere tend to be disconcertingly ‘soft’.
How time tells! 50 years ‘off’ Stabroek Market clock was a reliable marker of time. Vending was conducted compliantly within its fences. Fifty years ‘on’ the clock remains stock still – witnessing the hurried movement of displaced vendors.
What a symbol. Time has stopped –50 years ‘off’.
Yours faithfully,
E B John
